The Sketches
by OnYourLeft107
Summary: Exploring his old memories, Steve sketches out the core moments of his childhood, only to have Bucky find his forgotten drawings and a returned letter 70 years later. Minific.
1. Chapter 1

Steve opened his tattered sketchbook and quickly flipped past the first page, ignoring the crookedly pasted picture of him and Bucky as kids. It was hard to grasp that only a week ago his best friend had been right beside him. Now...well, it was different.

Bucky had shipped off to the 107th the day before. Now, Steve was enlisted, but hadn't gotten anywhere yet. He was going to camp the day after next, but for now, he was stuck at his apartment. It was...quiet. No laughter echoed in the drafty space, and the boxes that held the few belongings that he owned were stored at the Barnes' house, since his lease was ending in three days. The room was empty…and dark. Steve pushed away the negative thoughts that tried to creep in and fingered a blank page, his pencil poised. He waited for an idea, an urge, _anything_ to come into his mind and flow onto the paper.

It remained empty.

Then, slowly, as if driven by an outside force, his pencil began to move, sketching thin, spidery threads and progressing to a sharp, bold outline. Slowly, the scene began to take shape.

From the sooty brick alley to the patched-up cap Bucky wore, every detail was clear and precise, mirroring perfectly the image in his mind. He drew himself as a little boy, stumbling out of the alley corner, only supported by Bucky's strong arms. He drew a slit on his lip and a shadow over his eye. Bucky's eyes were calm and kind, and his smile brightened the dank, scuffed-up situation, giving even the half-dead kid some hope. Gradually, the criss-crossing of Steve's lines filled in the drawing, and with the finishing touches, he blew the eraser bits off the page and closed the book.

The following morning, Steve flipped to the next page and dusted off the next memory. The two of them were in pajamas, pillows and blankets tossed every which way and couch cushions jumbled across the floor. They were bent over their homemade cardboard toy soldiers and tanks, choosing their battle formations and sending their men over throw blanket mountains and cushion-crack ravines. Popcorn and chips were strewn across the carpet, and a waltzing fire crackled in the wood stove. Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Rogers sat in the kitchen talking over a cup of tea, and Mr. Barnes was in the back room smoking a cigar. Steve's eyes watered as he drew his mother's eyes with gentle strokes, her lips into a tender smile. How he missed her.

An aching love for his late mother sprang up and welled over in his heart. He remembered so well how in his younger years she had come home late every night, exhausted, hungry, often nearly at the end of her straw, and yet she'd always find time for him. She used to walk into his room, sit on his bed, smooth his hair back with an affectionate smile, and ask him how his day went. Often times she'd frown sadly at a bandaged arm or swollen ankle, and have to dress a few cuts. But she always did so with soft hands and a caring smile. She'd brighten with pride when he told her his grades and nod fondly when he would say his plans with Bucky for the next day. They would say prayers and she'd thank God for all the positives of the day, and humbly ask Him for help, whether it was for the next rent payment or because someone at school was giving him a hard time. They would always find a way. It seemed that nothing could tear that woman down; no matter how hard it got, she'd pick herself up and dust herself off and be right back at it with a smile. He had always strived to be like her.

As Steve's thoughts wandered, he finished the drawing and left his notebook for the next day.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve grinned as he settled down in his bunk and flipped open the leather book. He had been recruited only a week ago, but already he both hated and loved his new life.

It had been a rough day at the camp with Hodge, but at least he couldn't get in the way of the little guy's sketches. He smirked as the memories of after-school detention played in his mind. Steve, not surprisingly, had gotten involved in a fistfight over something - what it had been this time escaped his memory - and Bucky had ended up involved in an attempt to save him from getting beaten to a bloody pulp. He may have gotten just _slightly_ carried away...the soldier chuckled. They _had_ deserved a good whuppin'.

He and Bucky had spent their time of punishment making faces at each other from across the room and tapping out morse code to plan the rest of their afternoon...and also how to explain the incident to their mothers. Steve smiled sadly. No punishment had seemed so bad when Bucky was there with him...the real punishment was being without Bucky. But Steve hoped...he _prayed_ , that if the experiment was successful, he could find his best friend again. He never realized how the absence of such a jerk could have such a big effect on him….

Even when he had nothing, he had Bucky. And now...it _did_ feel like he had nothing. Besides defending his country, his reasons for enlisting were to follow his friend...til the end of the line.

He just hoped that the serum would work.

"What's this?" asked Dr. Erskine with interest, adjusting his glasses as he examined a page. "You draw?"

Steve shrugged. "A little. It passes the time."

The doctor grunted. "These are very good. But, one question. Who is this?"

Steve had to laugh when the man help up the picture he had drawn earlier that day. "Well, that's of one of the first times Bucky set me up on a blind date. It...didn't go exactly as planned." Steve ran his fingers through his sandy-colored hair. "Let's just say I was a disappointment in more ways than one."

Abraham chuckled. "And this girl, you liked her?"

"Well…." Steve smiled sheepishly. "Bucky was a little out of practice in finding my...type."

The German doctor nodded and smiled back at the book. "This 'Bucky'...you hope to find him?"

"I'm not leaving without him."

The man paused, and with a final glance, handed the sketches back. "When you do find him, you should show him these. And tell him he's lucky to have a friend like you."

Steve nodded. "I will. At least, about showing him. As for a friend," he sighed, "I'm nothing special. He's the one who doesn't realize his worth. I told him I could get by on my own…" His quiet laugh held a wistful tinge. "I guess I'm finding that's not true."

Erskine agreed sadly. "You never know what something's worth until you lose it."


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky pulled a small cardboard box from underneath Steve's bed, his cold gray eyes taken over by a warm curiosity. He gave a confused frown as he opened it and blew the dust off an old, brittle, brown leather sketchbook. "What's this?"

Steve snapped out of his daze at the sound of his best friend's voice. "What?"

"This." Bucky held up the spiral-bound book with a questioning glance.

"Oh." Steve swallowed. "It's...my old drawings. I don't think I ever got a chance to show you them."

Bucky opened to the first page and stared at the black and white photo. "It's...us."

"Yeah."

The man bit his lip, torn between slamming the book shut or continuing on. His hand trembled as he flipped to the next yellowed page and the next, sometimes looking at a sketch for minutes at a time, recalling the innocence that had been erased. Steve watched him with concern, not sure whether to expect a lash-out or a breakdown...hoping desperately for neither.

Bucky shook his head and sniffed, giving Steve a mischievous grin. "I remember this," he said, pointing to the page with the two sitting in detention. "You really _did_ like getting punched. Why in the world would you call Harry a twit?"

Steve gave him a doubtful smile. "I'm pretty sure that wasn't the reason."

"Oh yeah it was. I clearly remember you yelling it to his face. You're really a punk, you know that?"

"Pfft."

A few minutes passed when Bucky recovered something worth questioning. "Steve, what is _this_?" He held up a letter with three returns.

"It's...I tried to send it to you while I was at camp. Somehow it would never go through."

Bucky ripped open the envelope and unfolded the unread letter. It read,

 _Buck,_

 _How are you? You're going to kill me...I enlisted. I'm part of a program that I can't put in this letter since it's top secret, but I'm hoping I'll be able to explain it to you when I find you. How's the food there? It's not too bad here - most of the time I can hardly finish my rations they're so big. If you get this, let me know you're okay. I'll try to make it out there as soon as I can._

 _Don't win the war 'til I get there._

 _Steve_

 _P.S. Be careful out there. You still owe me one._

"You were _such_ a punk," smiled Bucky fondly, shaking his head. "I wish I would've gotten this."

Steve rolled his eyes at his buddy and relaxed his shoulders. He only then realized how tensely he had been waiting for his friend's reaction.

As he leaned back in his old recliner, his phone buzzed. After only a moment's hesitation, he answered. "Hello?"

"Steve. Where are you?"

"Well, _that_ was an inconspicuous way of leading up to asking me out, Nat. You should've tried that when we were on the _Lemurian Star_. Maybe I would've told you," teased Steve, giving Bucky a wink. "Maybe I would've said yes."

Natasha was unamused. "You're hilarious. And also an idiot." She seemed to reconsider for a moment. "Well, you're a _boy_. I should cut you some slack."

"'Boy,' huh?" Steve smirked. "Don't forget you still owe me one."

"You're crazy if you think I haven't repaid it already. I _know_ you're on 1784 West April Street," came the response.

" _Really_."

"Yeah. Your stealth skills are pretty good for an old man, I'll give you that. But compared to mine? Let's just say you need a little more practice."

"Says the one who's not over six feet tall and carrying a brightly-painted shield around."

Nat lowered her voice. "Steve, can you do me a favor? I need you to be honest with me."

"Depends on what it is." The corners of his mouth twitched with slight amusement. "And I'm always honest."

"I know how much Bucky means to you, but could you...just…." The redhead let out a heavy sigh. "Stay out of this one. Please?"

Steve's heart sank as he shook his head with remorse. "I wish I could say yes. But it's not just that-"

"Steve. You're risking everything you've rebuilt, your life, other people's lives, all because you refuse to sign a piece of paper?" Her voice turned from a plead to icy disappointment. "You're not the Captain America I knew."

"I know. A lot of things have changed, Nat, and...well, there's no going back."

Mutual regret seeped into the silence between them as they let each other's heavy words replay in their minds.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, do you really think it's worth it?" asked Nat quietly.

Steve looked over at Bucky, whose fingers brushed the fragile pages of the old sketchbook, his eyes filling with bittersweet tears as the long-searched-for memories returned.

Steve gave a quivering smile and looked at the floor. "Nat…." He cleared his throat and looked back at Bucky. "Right now...there's nothing worth more."


End file.
